Poetry by Eileen Pettycrew
for Elena I thought of how you arrived into the world six weeks early, already buttery tiny but fleshed out full of lungs and fire, your heart at full throttle rushing through the curve, and even though I knew you would never schedule yourself on a predawn train, dangling wreckage on a flashing screen tears a heart into a hundred ragged beats. You were asleep when I called. Mom, I’m not on that train. How fear breaks like breaking water, derails us into thinking it’s been wrung from our tissues. My careening rosebud, I couldn’t stop shaking. Note: On December 18, 2017, an Amtrak passenger train traveling 80 mph in a 30 mph zone derailed from an overpass south of Tacoma, Washington.
Eileen Pettycrew lives and writes in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in Watershed Review, Gold Man Review, Rain Magazine, and The Scream Online.